Colour Me In
by Quinn Anderson
Summary: There are many different ways to say "I love you." Sherlock can't seem to find the right one. [Johnlock]


I wrote this for tumblr user ughbenedict, whom I love to death. She got me into the wonderful and brilliant Damien Rice, so writing this was really the least I could do to repay her. If you get a chance, please listen to his song "Colour Me In." It was the inspiration for this piece.

Also if you like you can drop by my blog and say hi: moriartystayingalive dot tumblr dot com.

Or check out my teenlock blog: fuckyeahteenlock dot tumblr dot com.

Or my writing blog: quinnandersonwrites dot tumblr dot com

I have too many blogs.

…

Sherlock is married to his work, until suddenly he isn't.

He's breathing hard, and his lungs feel like they're full of shrapnel. John is panting next to him, leaning against the narrow alley wall for support. Sherlock can't begin to estimate how far they've just run. He listens carefully, ignoring the pounding of his own pulse in his ears, until he's certain he can no longer hear anyone chasing after them.

They're safe now.

The dizzying reality of it washes over Sherlock and makes him suck in a breath. Images hit him in flashes: a drug deal gone bad, guns pointed at John, pointed at him, men who spoke in guttural voices like snapping fangs, bright metal dipped in moonlight and the sluggish feeling of wanting to run so much faster than his body was able.

Sherlock had lost control of the situation, and for the umpteenth time, it had nearly cost John his life. Adrenaline is still pumping through him, making his skin crackle. The knowledge of his own mortality feels like raw electricity shooting down his spine. He flexes his fingers to keep them from going numb.

"God," John suddenly breathes, "that was brilliant."

He laughs, the sound low and warm as it echoes down the alley and into the night. He seems partially delirious, laughing and clutching his knees as he struggles to breathe.

Sherlock thinks he must have finally driven him mad.

"How can you say that?" Sherlock blurts out before he can think about it. "For God's sake, I'm going to be the death of you."

There are three beats of unearthly silence, and then something in the air between them snaps. John is in his space so fast, Sherlock can't even react.

John kisses him, and it's possibly the worst thing that's ever happened to Sherlock.

He feels an ache in his chest unlike anything he's ever experienced, like his heart is bursting, like his own body suddenly can't find room for him anymore, and before Sherlock knows it he's crying and kissing John back with everything he has.

They go home to 221B. John makes two cups of tea, and they sleep in two separate beds.

…

Sherlock is lying supine on their sofa with his palms pressed together beneath his nose. He has three patches slapped carelessly on his forearm—nicotine is buzzing in his veins; it's so loud, he can feel it just under his skin—and all his concentration is focussed on the man sat in a chair on the far side of the room.

John doesn't notice him staring. He's got a newspaper spread out in his lap, and he's poring over the articles. All hopelessly dull, of course: the minutiae of estate sales and banking scandals. He's looking for cases, for something to tempt Sherlock out of the dark mood he's fallen into over the past few days.

Sherlock isn't in a dark mood, but he doesn't tell John that, just watches him, commits him to memory. John's mouth is quirked to the side (he's concentrating), and he's not got dressed for the day yet (doesn't have plans.)

Lazy Sunday sunlight streams through the windows, warming the floorboards. Sherlock fights the urge to curl up in the pools of light like a cat. Instead, he studies John's blond hair, flecked with grey and gold. If John tilts his neck just so, a stray bit of sun will catch it and make it glow like white-hot embers. If Sherlock stares hard enough, the lines in John's face spell out words in a language he's certain he understands.

Sherlock's eyes drift away for a moment. He rotates his wrist, watching his veins pop out beneath his too-white skin.

"It's not love, is it?"

His question shatters the peaceful silence.

John startles and looks up. From this distance, his dark blue eyes look black: deep shadows in his face that Sherlock wants to soak his hands in.

John gives him an odd look. He doesn't understand. Sherlock is instantly frustrated with him.

"This," he says, carelessly flicking a hand between them. "Us. It's not love, is it?"

John's eyes shutter closed at Sherlock's tone, and he turns back to his paper. "I don't know."

"Yes," Sherlock says confidently, "you don't. Well, nothing new there."

He slides to his feet and disappears into the kitchen before John can reply.

…

The sky is the colour of aluminium.

Sherlock is so cold his skin burns. John is standing next to him, silent and still. He's not complaining, but Sherlock knows he wants to. He can see it in the stiff set of his shoulders and the way he won't look anywhere but forward.

Police officers mill about aimlessly. Sherlock has to bite his tongue to keep from yelling at them to just go home already. They'd accomplish more there than here. But he keeps quiet, for once, and let's Lestrade explain to him all the things about the case that he'd already learnt from a cursory glance through the file. Break in. No suspects. Nothing taken. Doesn't make sense.

Sherlock's time is being wasted. Nothing was taken, therefore there was no crime, therefore he doesn't need to be here. This is Mycroft's doing. He is keeping him occupied. Undoubtedly Mrs Hudson rang him after Sherlock set fire to her bins. Insufferable. But would Mycroft interfere solely on her behalf? Sherlock looks at John askance, attempting to ascertain from his face alone if he helped orchestrate this waste of time. _Et tu, lohannes?_

To his complete surprise, John answers that question for him.

"Lestrade," he says, his voice harsh from the cold and something else, "is this really necessary?"

Lestrade turns away from the group of officers he'd been speaking with and grins at John. "Thought you'd want it. Bit odd, this one. Seems right up Sherlock's alley."

"But there's no crime here." John folds his arms over his chest.

Sherlock is tempted to interject, but he remains silent, watching to see what John will do next.

Lestrade glances at Sherlock as if to see what he thinks, and John doesn't like that at all.

"Are we finished here?" he says, and a hint of Captain John Watson shines through.

Lestrade looks affronted. "You can leave if you like, but I still think Sherlock—"

"—would vastly prefer not to waste time on a four. Remember what he said? He shouldn't leave the flat for anything less than a seven. No matter what Mycroft says."

John turns about in a way that screams 'military' and stalks off, not looking back to see if Sherlock is following.

Sherlock nearly trips over himself to chase after him.

"Dinner?" he says when he reaches John's side.

"Love some," John says in a jovial tone.

Sherlock swallows the words pushing against his lips and instead says, "I know a place. Owner owes me a favour. We can eat for free."

…

Sherlock kisses John, and it's definitely the worst thing that's ever happened to him.

John is just as surprised as him, judging by the little strangled noise he makes against his lips. Sherlock curls his fingers in John's jacket and wills himself not to crumple to the ground. John is warm and solid and firm against him, but he's not kissing him back. His hand is still on the doorknob, ready to turn it and walk down the stairs, out of 221B, out of Sherlock's life for an hour or a day or forever. Sherlock's never quite sure how long it'll be this time.

Sherlock lurches away and breathes deeply. John smells like Christmas and the shampoo they both share.

"Sherlock," John says, but he's has already turned away.

"Give my love to her," Sherlock murmurs, picking up his violin. "Whoever she is."

"She's not—"

"You can't tell me it's not a date," Sherlock interrupts. "Look at your shoes, your shirt, your hair. Obvious."

John is silent for a long time. When he speaks, his voice is rough with emotion.

"I can stay. Here. With you. I didn't think . . . . After last time, you never said—I'll not go. I'll stay here with you. We can talk about this. We can work it all out."

Sherlock doesn't respond. He stares at his white fingers—bone fingers—clutching at silver strings. He plucks one lightly, caresses it with his thumb, and thinks about tuning it to the sound of John's voice.

"Sherlock, I love you."

The world tilts on its axis, spinning out of control, hurtling out of orbit and slinging them all off into the abyss. Sherlock blinks, and his vision sizzles. He doesn't understand how it's possible to feel so happy and so acutely miserable at the same time.

Sherlock coughs to clear the words out of his throat and then says, "Text me when you're there so I know you made it."

…

Sherlock lights a cigarette. 4 months, 17 days and 3 hours since he's had one. He takes a drag, and his mental counter resets to zero.

"Those will kill you, you know," John says, but there's no bite to his words.

Sherlock doesn't let on how surprised he is to see him. He exhales and watches the smoke curl up into the night sky. The streets are silent and dripping in shadow.

"How did you know I'd come here?"

John tilts his head slightly. "The man who owns the pub next door rang me. I told him to let me know if you showed up."

Sherlock glances to the left. The darkness is punctuated by bursts of orange—fires lit in rubbish bins. Shapes huddle around them, and human-sized lumps bunch together on the ground. No one looks at anyone else, but everyone shares heat.

Sherlock is quiet for a long moment before he says, "I wasn't going to go through with it. I—I wasn't going to—"

John slings an arm awkwardly around him and gives his side a squeeze. "I know, I know. You took the cigarette. I knew you wouldn't."

Sherlock's hand shakes as he takes another drag. He wonders how John could have possibly known something that he hadn't known himself until two minutes ago.

Sherlock chokes on what he wants to say and instead says, "We should go home before you catch a cold."

"What about you?"

Sherlock doesn't answer.

…

"This is love, isn't it?"

Sherlock isn't certain if he said it aloud or not. His brain is overloaded with sensory information: the cool sheets beneath him, the moonlight spilling through his window, and John, John on top of him, kissing him everywhere: forehead, eyelids, mouth, neck, collarbone, down and up again like he has a list in his mind.

Sherlock's unravelling beneath John's careful fingers. The silky slick feeling of their skin rubbing together is threatening to short-circuit his brain. Just as he's certain all hope is lost, John stops and pulls back.

"You really don't know?"

John is breathing heavily. Sherlock is mesmerised by the movement of his chest. He wraps his legs lazily around him and skims his hands along his back.

"Do you?"

John leans down and kisses him deeply. Sherlock is breathless in seconds, and he knows, definitely, certainly, completely, that it's the best thing that's ever happened to him. His body is melting beneath the solid, warm weight of John's. He wants them both to melt, to mix together until they're indiscernible. John stops and looks up. Sherlock can tell where every line on his face is even though it's too dark to see them.

"I don't know," John says.

"Yes, you do." Sherlock says it like it's just another fact. Sodium has 11 protons and 11 electrons. The Earth goes round the Sun. John Watson is in love with Sherlock Holmes.

John noses Sherlock's neck. His breath is hot against his skin. "Yes."

Sherlock bites his lip to hold back the words threatening to pour out of him. One day, they'll win. They'll break free. He can feel it in his bones or maybe his soul.

But for now, Sherlock wraps his arms around John's shoulders and says instead, "Stay here tonight. Sleep with me."

And John does.

…


End file.
